


Kintsugi of Hermione Granger

by beestung2025



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Dark Hermione Granger, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 08:57:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14493420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beestung2025/pseuds/beestung2025
Summary: EWE. 10 years on the war still rages; losses are innumerable and unbearable, and unable to connect with her best friends anymore, Hermione Granger breaks down. But what will be crafted in her remaking? HG/LVHiatus for time being-- when I continue it will be worthy of the E rating. I'll update the tags when I have time to continue this.





	1. Chapter 1

> ****_ Kintsugi (or Kintsukuroi, which means “golden repair”) is the centuries-old Japanese art of fixing broken pottery with a special lacquer dusted with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. Beautiful seams of gold glint in the cracks of ceramic ware, giving a unique appearance to the piece -My Modern Met _

 

She was 25, for Godric’s sake. It’d been 10 years since Voldemort regained a body, and 7 since the Battle of Hogwarts, which was in turn the first of many violent clashes and bloody brawls. The dead haunted her just as much as everyone else, such as the loss of the entire Weasley clan with the exception of Ron, Fred and Bill. Remus was made to watch his young wife Tonks and their infant son Teddy being violated and mauled by Fenrir Greyback. Harry clung desperately to the memory of a juvenile relationship with Ginny, tinged with guilt and a touch of obsession-- a potent mix that drove Severus Snape away from the last survivors of the Order of the Phoenix. The Order of the Phoenix was stationed at 12 Grimmauld Place again, Hermione having spent months learning to dismantle hostile wards under Bill’s careful cursebreaker tutelage, before erecting a new Fidelus Charm with Bill as secret keeper. Hermione didn’t want the responsibility; she’d already spent all of her time when she wasn’t working with Bill on the wards teaching herself the Fidelus. 

Hermione wanted to scream with the unfairness of it all, the double standard of her intelligence that always meant she had to perform the difficult magic, researching and usually having to teach herself. The only advantage in recent years that had come from the double standard was that it afforded her the opportunity for Minerva McGonagall to apprentice her. In honor of ‘fairness,’ Kingsley Shacklebolt gave Ron and Harry Auror training and mock exams--increasing their ability to survive without Hermione’s constant help, she thought to herself snidely.

She had hoped today was going to be a good day and had even already taken extra time to charm her hair into semi-manageability instead of barely controlled chaos. No, today on her 25th birthday instead of any well wishing that everyone remembered for the other residents, Ron went on a tirade about how she, Hermione Granger, supposed brightest witch of the age and mudblood extraordinaire, had been promoted to Undesirable No. 2, bumping Ron into the 3rd slot. Hermione was proud that she was recognized for some of her actual talents rather than simply the mudblood best friend to Harry Potter. The report from the Daily Prophet had said she was as dangerous as Potter, a distinction they never gave to Ron, as well as reminded everyone of that she achieved becoming youngest Transfiguration Master in two centuries despite being a wanted witch and fighting an endless war against Voldemort. 

Hermione sought refuge in her personal sanctuary, the library in the former home of the infamously prejudice pureblood Black family. She pondered on the family as she traced the shelves. Only one Black was still in this plane of existence, Narcissa Malfoy nee Black. Her son Draco could be considered heir to both the Malfoys and the Blacks, except that both family charters forbade it. Draco Malfoy could only hope to have multiple sons and pass on a title to each, playing Steward to legacy of the Black family. With her thoughts drifting from Draco as Hermione gazed at the thickly stuffed shelves studded with numerous expansion charms, she realized she’d read just about every book in the library. She’d even read the dark tomes full of the most vile magic, even the dry family histories and charters, and even the surprisingly thorough collection on the old Celtic gods and in particular, The Morrigan. A Black ancestor married in from the Sayre family, bringing with her books on the goddess and the powerful and historical Irish crow animagus that her family descended from.

Hermione sighed deeply and sat delicately in an antique armchair. Every year seemed to drive another wedge between herself and her friends. They’d felt unstoppable at first, the glory of her teen years giving way to the continued despair of her early twenties as more of their comrades fell around them. Now they were isolated with only each other and the close quarters paired with the oppressive grief that never left, breeding resentment. If only the world truly knew how Ronald Weasley was pissed off that Hermione Granger, the better witch, was finally recognized as Undesirable  No 2. Once upon a time Hermione had fancied herself in love with Ron, a very long time ago when they were still silly students at Hogwarts. Now the castle was in the same ruined state as her feelings for the wizard, a callow boy who grew up to be petty and infantile man with a hair-trigger temper. How pleased Voldemort would be if he could see how broken and fractured they’d become: the remaining Weasley brothers who blamed each other secretly for their family’s fate, Harry who pined after a dead witch and took every death personally, and her, Hermione Granger, who took up the study of the Dark Arts from the Black library out of sheer boredom and the obsessive need to have the upper edge.

Hermione’s grievances weren’t always considered valid in the eyes of those she lived with at Grimmauld Place and so she bottled her feelings inside herself. Her parents were supposedly still alive, though thoroughly obliviated of the fact they ever had a daughter. Minerva McGonagall who’d passed the previous year had not been her mother, no matter how close the pair had become during her apprenticeship. She had not been in love with Neville, even if he was her first real friend in the wizarding world. Any muggle acquaintances she’d once had had been found brutally murdered over the years, but were considered less important because they were just ‘random muggles’ according to Ronald Weasley. And the man she’d saved from bleeding out during the Battle of Hogwarts, the man whom she came to care deeply for over cauldrons and biting wit, had left due to Harry’s maudlin obsession that veered between his mother and his dead girlfriend. Severus Snape had continued acting the spy for them, even after Voldemort nearly killing him (what was once compared to the other hundred plus times?), until Harry and Ron pushed him too far and even the soothing balm of Hermione could not stop him from leaving.

Hermione groaned bitterly to herself, pleased that Snape was kept in high regard by Voldemort and disappointed that she would never have any other sort of life than the one she currently lived. It brought to mind a muggle novel she’d read long ago,  Catcher In the Rye . A quote from the book surfaced in her thoughts, 

> “This fall I think you're riding for—it's a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn't permitted to feel or hear himself hit bottom. He just keeps falling and falling. The whole arrangement's designed for men who, at some time or other in their lives, were looking for something their own environment couldn't supply them with. Or they thought their own environment couldn't supply them with. So they gave up looking. They gave it up before they ever really even got started.” *

Had they given up? Had the supposed Golden Trio, fighters of the Order of the Phoenix, given up after having been set up for such a special, horrible kind of fall by Albus Dumbledore? Snape had confessed one late night while brewing with her that he felt they’d all been manipulated by Dumbledore more than Voldemort ever manipulated him. With Voldemort, Snape explained, it was easy to know where you stood. If the Dark Lord was angry with you, you were Crucio’d. If he was pleased, you were rewarded. Otherwise, you were ignored. Dumbledore hid everything behind a benign, twinkling persona that never let you know where you stood and his punishments were emotional, leaving deeper scars than the Dark Lord did, for having feigned love and acceptance whereas the Dark Lord did not bother with such.

Hermione heaved another sigh and pulled herself up, warding the door and clearing an area on the hardwood floor for her to work. She always felt better after ritual magic, and had taken to invoking The Morrigan. It was one of the few ways Hermione dealt with her grief, calling upon The Morrigan in an old rite she found in an ancient text here in the Black library. It was a secret that she shared with Minerva and the older, astute witch approved of Hermione’s turn to the old religion. Hermione utilized her own blood; a tiny dagger Severus had given her, being used to slice each fingertip so she could draw the rune circle for channeling and heightening magic. Hermione set out the items she’d secreted within the room for her altar, changing into formal black robes before testing the integrity of her circle and stepping within it. Her voice spoke the words of the invocation lyrically, describing and praising The Morrigan, goddess of ravens and revenge, of night and magic and witches and fate and death. Over the next hour, Hermione communed with her faith in a circle drawn in blood on the library floor.

After Hermione was finished with her worship of The Morrigan, she still felt bitter and drained. Instead of the normal peace she felt after a ritual, there was an unyielding despair that had sunk into the marrow of her bones. The pleasure of being recognized as second to only Voldemort’s prophesied nemesis, had been marred by Ron’s ridiculous temper. Something within Hermione broke, and within the bloody circle on the floor, Hermione sobbed her heart out, wishing that The Morrigan would heed her need and grant her the grace to fight on. The rune circle performed admirably as the emotional outpouring from Hermione coalesced into heavy magic about her person. Once her tears had dried, Hermione utilized the salt and water from her altar, using her little dagger to mix in a few drops of her blood. With a shaking hand she anointed her own forehead with the crescent moon of The Morrigan, and willfully drew her heightened and  emotionally charged magic back within herself. She stood, making up her mind and cleaning up her ritual circle with a well placed scourgify and a banishing charm. After a thought and a flick of Hermione’s wand, many of the books from the Black library were banished into her trusty beaded bag that she’d taken to carrying on her person at all times since the Battle of Hogwarts.

Hermione tossed a fistfull of floo powder into the library’s fireplace. She stepped through, her destination being the one place in magical Britain where she could be truly alone: the familial home that Minerva McGonagall bequeathed her in the Scottish highlands. Here, Hermione had done most of her Transfiguration apprenticeship, lightheartedly remembering the accidental perpetual transfiguration spell that permanently changed her hair to black instead of the mousy brown it had once been. Minerva had laughed gaily at the time and announced Hermione would pass for a McGonagall in looks as well as mind. A small sound that might’ve once been a laugh escaped her at the memory. 

Hermione checked the wards she had erected on the property, dark and obscure ones that overlay the powerful ancient enchantments of Minerva’s ancestral home. Hermione decided she would become the witch she’d fought becoming since she realized her darker nature. She would use the rage and vengeance in her heart to channel The Morrigan; the process started with mixture of the purified salt of her altar, the fresh highland water from her chalice, and the blood from her fingertips anointing her brow in Morrigan’s crescent sigil. She drew a hand through her wild black curls, fingering her wand. Laying the hairs that came free in her hand onto the back of a chair, she wove a complicated transfiguration spell that would have made Minerva proud, producing a cloak of glossy black raven’s feathers that were that of her animagus form.

Hermione’s otter patronus changed after the Battle of Hogwarts to a raven, the same form as her eventual animagus shape that she learned to shift to during her Transfiguration apprenticeship. It was the correlation of her patronus and animagus forms that prompted her to learn more about Morrigan the witch as well as the lore about Morrigan the goddess, tales that Minerva would tell by the fireside during the long nights they spent as Master and Apprentice. The approval by the Treatise of Transfiguration Commission by the International Council of Wizards to award Hermione her mastery shortly before Minerva’s death had been one of the highest points of their relationship, along with the day Minerva initiated a blood bonding that would make Hermione the daughter in blood the one she’d already become emotionally. It was their secret, taking residence with the other secrets of Minerva’s that Hermione had held as her Apprentice. But now the apprentice had become a Master, and this Master would be taking a great risk to bring war and death to The Dark Lord. She sent off her patronus to Severus and drew her cloak of raven’s feathers about her shoulders, as she stepped out of the front door to the old estate.

Hermione walked the quarter mile to the ward boundaries, a distance she’d lengthened after Minerva’s death, to the new apparition point. Her raven patronus had been the agreed upon sign for Severus to meet Hermione at the coordinates where she was standing waiting patiently. The cantankerous Severus Snape was still a sarcastic bastard, but he had come to regard her with the odd sort of friendship that he’d held with Minerva when she was alive. It seemed to be the closest one got to the surly potions master, though Hermione found his sarcastic wit outside of the classroom to be of a refined yet acquired taste, much like the dry Scottish humor of Minerva herself. A loud pop announced Severus’s arrival.

“Granger are you alright?” Snape demanded, grabbing her arms and looking her up and down, taking in the bloody sigil on her forehead and the receding red in her eyes from the crying she’d done earlier.

“I’m perfectly fine, Severus.” Hermione answered sedately, removing herself firmly, but gently from his grasp.

“Why bother to summon me if you’re fine? I was in the middle of brewing--” Severus began haughtily. Hermione let out a chuckle.

“You’re always in the middle of brewing, Severus. I do hope you will forgive me.” Hermione twirled her wand in her fingers deftly, intoning “ _ Imperio _ .”

Severus Snape struggled in place, while Hermione’s voice soothed his agitated mind that was attempting to throw off the surprisingly strong Imperius curse. Snape idly wondered how he never noticed how Hermione must have taken to practicing the dark tomes he occasionally caught her reading and had even discussed at length with her in the Black Library.

“Severus, be calm and breathe. You will injure yourself otherwise. Don’t fight me, Severus. I will not harm you. I need a favor from you that you would not grant me otherwise.” Hermione’s voice echoed inside his head, the muscles of his body easing with her command.

“What do you wish of me, Granger?” Snape asked in a hoarse whisper.

“I want you to take me to the Dark Lord, Severus.” Hermione answered.

“He-- He’ll kill you.” Snape answered flatly. While having broken from the Order, he had grown to care for the petite witch that apprenticed with his former colleague and friend. He’d even been jealous she didn’t ask to apprentice with him, but he didn’t blame her for it. He was a surly bastard after all.

“Not if I kill him first.” Hermione’s lips twisted into a feral smile, gesturing at her black formal robes, the raven feather cloak clasped with an ornate goblin silver brooch, and stopping at the bloody crescent sigil of The Morrigan on her forehead. Snape catalogued the details he missed previously-- the familiar sight of Minerva’s family heirloom cloak brooch upon Hermione’s breast causing his breath to catch. Snape also realized Hermione was emanating raw power in quantities that reaffirmed that ‘Brightest Witch of the Age’ was a misnomer and vastly underrated her. In the old ways, which he belatedly realized must have been something Minerva taught her, a god or goddess could be channeled and power could be heightened in service to them, but the original power would have to come from the own witch or wizard’s; nothing could truly augment one’s own power, only refine it.

“I see. Shall I announce you as McGonagall or Granger?” Snape asked the question burning within him-- did Minerva ever follow through with her intention to perform a familial blood bond with Hermione? Minerva the last of both her father and mother’s clans after the systematic murder of anyone who opposed or was related to someone who openly opposed Voldemort. Snape had directed the older witch to appropriate rituals.

“McGonagall. It is time.” Hermione bowed her head, fingering the brooch she’d labored on as her magnum opus of her transfiguration apprenticeship to prove herself worthy to be awarded Master status. Minerva’s matriarchal heirloom brooch of Ross clan featured the Thistle of Scotland woven beautifully into celtic knotwork, and when it was passed to Hermione upon her blood bonding, a raven was added to the design. From then onward, Hermione’s birth was Granger but her blood and magic were Ross like Minerva, a half-blood who got her magic from her mother. 

Snape looked at the witch pensively before holding out his arm for her to take for side-along apparition. Hermione pulled her cowl with hood over her face, looking every inch an avenging goddess in Snape’s opinion. He turned on his heel abruptly, arriving them in an antechamber to the Dark Lord’s headquarters, set aside for Death Eaters arriving by apparition with guests and more frequently,  ‘guests.’

 

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *JD Salinger, Catcher In the Rye


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione meets with The Dark Lord

 

> “Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.” ― Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man

* * *

 

“Minerva McGonagall passed last year with no family. The McGonagalls and Rosses have been eradicated. I allowed you in here, because you managed to _Imperio_ one of my most finest servants who has spied more than half his life. Who are you, Little Morrigan?” Lord Voldemort’s pale skin gleamed in the half-light of the throne room. It looked to be in the hall of an old Keep, with a high table over-looking an open audience area before the benches where his minions must gather. A few magically restored tapestries hung on the wall; all of the scenes seemed to focus on fens and snakes and dark haired people. Hermione pulled down her hood, revealing her face to the lithe figure lounging on his stone throne with carved snakes in a baroque style.

“Misss Granger. Undesirable Number Two.” Voldemort leaned back, practically hissing in delight. “Severus would not have expected you, I can see how you bested him. I am… pleased.” Voldemort smiled shrewdly. Hermione dropped the curse on Snape.

“P-pleased, my lord?” Snape spluttered as he regained his infamous control.

“Pleased that a mudblood can achieve so much, and be such a worthy opponent. Yet, Little Morrigan, you did not answer my question.” Voldemort sat forward, steepling his long, slender fingers.

“I am the Bonded Daughter of Minerva McGonagall. Steward to the Ross Legacy.” Hermione answered, dipping into a sarcastic yet entirely proper pureblood curtsey for the station.

“I noticed during a battle more than a year ago that you were no longer a mere mudblood, girl. I’ve been watching you in battle. Fierce little lioness, yet flies away when it suits her.” Voldemort sneered.

“You’ve watched me? How flattering, the Dark Lord deigning to look at me.” Hermione spat back, rolling her eyes. As if she would believe that.

“You’ve been a naughty witch, Hermione Granger. You sling ancient battle curses as your compatriots still fight with stunners. You use archaic rights to claim what is not yours: you are no Morrigan, witch.” Voldemort retorted, leaning forward in his chair.

“I do like to read. I’ve been called a know-it-all and a bookworm. Your _servant_ can attest to that.” Hermione’s response held a note of derision in it.

“But to use spells without proper training and tutelage? Tsk. How did you know how to call upon The Morrigan? I’d recognize that scent anywhere.” Voldemort’s nostrils flared. Severus tried to discreetly scent the air. He didn’t have the snake like tendencies of Voldemort, but he could detect the barest hint of a fresh sea wind from off the coast--except they were much too far inland to have any smell like that.

“I have fought against you more than half my life. Do you think I would not turn to religion for respite and peace?” Hermione leveled at him.

“Very few practice the old religions anymore; not even the purebloods who’d practiced the traditions for centuries. Hogwarts celebrates Christian holidays and ignores the magical roots that are superior, catering to you mudbloods and the blood traitors.” Voldemort slammed an open palm on the armrest of his chair before slipping his hand into his robe for his wand.

“I do not care who does and does not practice. It is personal to me, and one of the few things that have made sense since I entered this chaotic world.” Hermione sneered.

“So the mudblood prefers her usurped magical prowess?” Voldemort fingered his wand delicately.

“If you’d read anything correct about these rituals they only heighten my own magic through service. I usurped nothing. The Morrigan bid me here, and here I am.” Hermione curtsied again, not letting her eyes leave Voldemort.

“You are now magically considered a half-blood; since you were bonded your most unfortunate heritage would be overwhelmed by the stronger claim.” Voldemort narrowed his ruby eyes at the young witch in front of him, dressed properly unlike most of his own servants even. Modest black, yet formal robes. Aura of The Morrigan and her sigil in blood on the witch’s forehead. And the most intriguing part, a robe that was made from raven feathers that had a matching magical signature to the witch… more than just a fancy transfiguration made that cloak.

“It matters not what my heritage is.” Hermione replied stiffly.

“You have yet to hear my offer, Little Morrigan.” Voldemort’s mouth twisted into a smile, revealing slightly pointed teeth. Hermione thought that they would be interesting to study, being the daughter of dentists.

“Renounce your mudblood status, become Stewardess of the Ross legacy as bequeathed to you by Minerva McGonagall, and I will apprentice you. Your darker spells need refinement.” Voldemort offered with a wide sweep of his wand, sending green sparks in the air.

“I have nothing to renounce. I am a mudblood, but I am also the blood-bound daughter of the late Minerva McGonagall. I am the youngest Transfiguration Master in two centuries, completed while being a wanted witch and fighting your forces in battle for close to 10 years and you only just named me Undesirable Number Two. I’m hurt, you know.” Hermione sniffed theatrically.

“Gryffindors are always the same.” Voldemort growled.

“We wouldn’t know now would we, seeing as your forces destroyed Hogwarts, something I would have thought the Heir of Slytherin, a Founder, would have been against.” Hermione replied tetchy-- she was still upset about the loss of the library.

“A regret on my part. There are classes being held for the worthy in Wiltshire.” Voldemort remarked casually.

“Something that I was reminded constantly I was not while in Hogwarts.” Hermione sneered.

“Ah, but are you now? Steward of the House of Ross, heir of Minerva McGonagall and last to bear her blood and magic?” Voldemort asked saccharinely.

“I have always been worthy. As were you, before you found out you were a half-blood instead of a mudblood.” Hermione laughed and drew her cloak of feathers closer. A jet of light bounced off of it, hitting the stone wall and cracking it.

“I have killed others for less.” Voldemort hissed in anger and Severus stepped back several paces towards the door. Death Eaters that lined the hall had been still as statues now seemed to gain life.

“And it makes it no less true. I have always been worthy.” Hermione smiled and stroked the feathers of her cloak.

“There might have been a reason for your promotion to Undesirable No 2. I would have liked to place you at the top of the list, but Potter is the figurehead of the resistance.” Voldemort sat back and laughed loudly as the Death Eaters again went into quiescence.

“What, like everyone else you finally noticed mudblood Granger?” Hermione rolled her eyes.

“No, my dear. I was simply waiting for you to come to me. Did you really think I couldn’t sense your aura or know that The Morrigan wouldn’t answer your call if you didn’t have darkness? When Severus finally divulged to me what you’d been reading, it made sense after I saw your performances in battle. You were destined to come to me. I had hoped you’d find today’s announcement on your birthday somewhat like a gift.” Voldemort’s words caught Hermione by surprise. She looked at him suspiciously, then glanced at Severus who looked sheepishly guilty.

“That… was a birthday gift?” Hermione asked guardedly.

“Indeed, it was.” Voldemort flashed his pointed teeth in a momentary grin at her.

“I-- thank you. I appreciate being recognized for my talents and not the obsession of who my parents are...were.” Hermione folded her hands neatly in front of herself to deliver her thank you.

“I have wondered, whatever did happen to your parents? I’ve set multiple servants on the project, even those with more familiarity with the muggle world and they cannot be found.” Voldemort tapped one long finger on his throne.

“David and Helen Granger are dead.” Hermione replied, her voice harsh. There was no way to reverse the memory altering spells now; they’d been in place too long. Their bodies were alive and living different lives, but they were not her parents anymore.

Voldemort raised a non-existent eyebrow but said nothing. Clearly there was more to this story because it was not any one under his command who killed them. All of the research on them pointed to the fact they simply disappeared one day. He pondered this for a moment before continuing on.

“After the sacking of Hogwarts, Little Morrigan, I endeavored to save the student files to see who to recruit, who to watch and who to simply kill. I was most intrigued by yours. Besting Severus’s logic problem and other obstacles protecting the Philosopher’s Stone at 12. Brewing Polyjuice unsupervised in the girl’s toilet at 13. At 14 you meddled with time to take unnecessary classes and save an escaped convict. At 15 you entrapped Rita Skeeter in a jar-- oh yes, she had many things to say about you when I tortured her for information--” Voldemort smirked nastily at Hermione who was surprised that he knew about her arrangement with Skeeter, yet felt ambivalent about the woman being tortured because of her.

“And then when you were 16, you cursed a girl who betrayed you before you sacrificed Dolores Umbridge to the Centaurs, historically known for violently raping their captives. Barely a few hours after leaving Umbridge to be violated by Centaurs, you fought a few of my inner circle at and still came out of the Department of Mysteries alive. Severus did inform me that he had to oversee your healing after sustaining injury from Dolohov. Still, I am grateful to Severus that you are alive. I would have lost all enjoyment in this feud long ago and would have won already if it hadn’t been for _you_.” Voldemort rose from his throne, his marble white skin contrasted severely with the black robes that swirled like smoke around his ankles. Hermione mentally rolled her eyes. It was an obscure transfiguration spell to put on one’s robes, but it’s not like she didn’t know the damn trick. Non verbally, she cast it on the hem of her own black robes, and noticed a smile of satisfaction spread across Voldemort’s face.

“You are the one who tried to systematically destroy my horcruxes and figured out which ones they were. You even broke into Gringotts successfully, and of all things, rode a dragon out. Thankfully, for me, you did not succeed with destroying all my Horcruxes. As if I would have used the Peverell stone. And the Deathly Hallows! Master of Death! Ha! A mix up very much like Morrigan the witch and Morrigan the goddess. My ancestor was ultimately the most cunning to dupe the powerful Peverell brothers into accepting three objects he created in exchange their dearest younger sister. Slytherin took her as an apprentice and concubine.” Voldemort stalked towards Hermione, closing the distance between them.

“And always during battles and skirmishes you fight ambitiously, you fight cunningly, and you fight to win. After your first run-in with my Death Eaters you began utilize Dark Arts unlike the rest of that blasted Order that I’ve almost finished wiping out.” Voldemort sneered at her, compliments sounding like insults. Hermione held her rigid posture, and simply drew her cloak closer.

“You are clearly more of a nemesis than Potter has ever been. A bit of blood magic performed by his mudblood mother. No, I think I have always interpreted the prophecy wrong. Now that I know the whole thing-- dear Potter was so easy to read before I destroyed the horcrux in him-- September was considered the seventh month before the Romans came to England.” Voldemort mused, taking stock of Hermione’s expressionless face.

“And yet, when has Sybill Trelawny been correct about anything? She was in her cups most of the time, and not reading tea leaves.” Hermione snorted indelicately.

“I must agree. I made a mistake with Potter. And I think, I made a mistake with you. I should have had Severus cultivate you from the beginning, when I finally regained a body. You really started to explore your darker side by your 5th year and I know he periodically checked on you. Your power is intoxicating and smells so good.” Voldemort leaned forward and licked her cheek. Hermione barely repressed shuddering as the slightly cold tongue ran up her skin to her temple. Voldemort then ran a finger down her other cheek, his powder white hands settling on her shoulders.

“My offer, Little Morrigan, is to stay with me. I will teach you everything you could want. You do not need to hide your interests, or even your disappointment.” Voldemort gave a half feral smile and wrapped his arms around her rigid form in a farce of a hug.

“Happy birthday, Hermione.” He whispered in her ear before releasing her. Hermione felt a stab of pain go through her. The only person who recognized her birthday this year was Voldemort. None of her friends remembered, and even Severus looked embarrassed for forgetting. Minerva had been the one to ensure she had happiness the last few years but without her this year… no one bothered to remember. Voldemort clapped his hands snapping her out of her reverie.

“What a fortuitous day! Severus, either show her to the apparition chamber or next to me in the North Wing. I wouldn’t want our Little Morrigan to be amongst the unwashed masses quite yet. Witch, if you decide to stay on, you will live with me and eat with me. I will set your assignments and I will oversee your training. As payment for your obstinacy for the last… well even prior to my rebirth you were a thorn in my proverbial side since you were 12, I think an _apprenticeship_ would serve adequately as repayment for the past 13 years.” Voldemort looked at the petite witch before him, evaluating her. He couldn’t quite tell what she looked like under all of her layers and that cloak of hers had many layers of charms woven into the transfiguration of a type he didn’t recognize. He disliked not knowing. But he did like the anticipation in finding out.

While a surprise, and not even a very good one, Hermione was still more than a little excited by all the adrenaline coursing through her. Finally someone aside from Minerva recognized her worth… and her birthday. It seemed petty, but the vain and darker side of her was very pleased. Her enemy paid enough attention to give her a gift of recognition and an offer of learning--two of her perpetual desires. She was conflicted however, given the way he’d casually mentioned the second half of the tale that was not in the supposed original copy of the Three Brothers that she had been bequeathed by Dumbledore. No, she found the original copy of the tale in the Black Library, before Beedle the Bard had made it more palatable for the masses.

A girl had been a carefree maiden and to flee the rising flood of a river, her three grown brothers built her a bridge with their magic. Pretending to be Death himself, a stranger offered her brothers their darkest desires for besting his flood. The magic was so strong and thick that the brothers had no idea it was actually Salazar Slytherin, the Dark Master of the Fens, who’d stopped them. And all he asked for after revealing himself was to have the beautiful young maiden as his apprentice. The brothers, unwilling to give up the gifts that would fulfill their deepest desires, gave their sister to Slytherin. The story ended there and Hermione could not find any other details no matter where she looked.

Becoming an apprentice to a Dark Lord and heir to the same Dark Master that took the Peverell maiden...Part of her wanted to run away and fast, hiding behind her wards in the highlands. Yet another part of her, that was not that of the panicked maiden but the voice of the wise crone suggested she would regret it deeply if she didn’t take this opportunity. The magic, the power… it was all hers for the taking. What was the purpose of The Morrigan’s desires and why was she here? Sometimes she found herself doing inexplicable things that simply felt ‘right’ after communing with the goddess. Like a tickle in the back of her mind, the crone reminded her that The Morrigan was not just goddess of War and Death, but that of Fate too. Was this to be her fate? To be the _apprentice_ of Lord Voldemort?

“I… accept.” Hermione said stiffly, bowing her head. Voldemort grinned savagely and kissed the crown of her curls.

“Good, I will have the preparations made for a binding.” Voldemort returned to his throne, waving her and Severus off with his hand. Voldemort watched as the pair left the room. Another grin spread across Voldemort’s face and a satisfaction bloomed in his chest.


End file.
